


In a Day's Work

by euphorbic



Series: Angel of Cities [14]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Canon-Typical Violence, Discussion of Free Will, Gratuitous Imagery, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Pseudoscience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 20:19:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3742333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphorbic/pseuds/euphorbic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles follows Erik along on his daily rounds about the city of Bashan only to end up with questions about the Powers and whether they have agency or not.</p><p>[See Series Notes for the Chronological order of the different parts.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	In a Day's Work

**Author's Note:**

> This contains the original _In a Day's Work, part one_ and part two.

Charles has no trouble keeping up for the first hour; his morning commute often involves him rushing from his apartment without breakfast, across two blocks to catch the green line to Bashan’s vaulted and glass-domed Grand Central Station. From Erik’s expansive flat, it is a much shorter jaunt: only three oak-lined streets away. This morning, they left from Erik’s since Charles had the day off, but Charles still missed his breakfast and coffee. Erik’s bed is comfortable and Charles stayed up far too late speculating with Raven and Hank.

Erik is almost always awake before him and often leaves him a breakfast of cut or dried fruit, yoghurt, and bread from the same Jewish deli near the station. When Charles has a late night, there is instant coffee waiting for him, too, but it is always long cold. Erik doesn’t think of things like coffee going cold or bread becoming stale; time is a difficult concept for him except in specific situations.

From what Charles understands from their Bond, Erik lives in a constant sense of Now. He relies on Bashan’s many timetables and thus is drawn to the perfectly timed dance that is the city’s public transport. That’s his jurisdiction as far as Charles can tell, huffing a little as Erik vaults up the stairs from the third sub basement’s blue line platform. It’s how Erik can seem so perfectly timed despite the little details. Human details.

Charles opts to run up the escalator rather than match Erik’s pace on the stairs, but with his speed and seemingly tireless energy, Erik still clears the floor before him. Ahead, there is a knot of people chatting on the escalator, oblivious to Charles’ haste. While he would normally verbally ask them to move, he opts instead to nudge them telepathically. It is an impulse, nothing more, a reminder that it is polite to keep one side of the escalator clear for people like him. 

All of the people so reminded, without noticing and without pause in conversation, step to the right. Charles pelts by to the next escalator, but Erik is nowhere in sight. Casting his awareness out wide, he listens for the singing of metal wings, the orrery of iron that represents his Power. He feels Erik up above, paused on the platform projecting a feeling of flux somewhere between irritation and calm acceptance.

From the corner of his vision, he sees glinting carnival colors and the blur of wings. Charles doesn’t turn his head to look, because Erik’s swarm is never visible to his direct sight. They appear in the corners of his vision; only in clear sight when he closes his eyes. Closing his eyes while running up an escalator is a bad idea, however.

He has a sense of something settling on his shoulder, metal claws snagging the weave of his coat. Erik is keeping tabs on him just as he is keeping tabs on Erik.

The carnival-colored flaps of the beetle’s metal carapace remain open so the wings it holds beneath can still beat and buzz out Erik’s voice.  _Do you need rest? Food?_

_I shouldn’t have skipped breakfast. I’m terribly sorry._

_I must rearrange my schedule to account for missing the connecting train. I’ll take you to the East Hub; there’s a fresh market there._

Charles clears the stairs and finds Erik standing on the platform. Erik is facing the train as it leaves the station, his hair whipping slowly about his head in opposition to the wind the train’s passage has created. Charles steps beside him, still breathing hard, aware of the beetle on his shoulder fading away. His hair, of course, tousles, pulled in the direction of the departing train.

Erik’s hand is warm when Charles reaches into his long winter coat for it. “I’m surprised you didn’t slow it down for us.”

“Distorting Bashan’s precision is madness and would cause imbalance.” Erik looks over his shoulder at Charles, but his expression isn’t as serious as his words. “At least for me. Allowing you to affect my precision, I wonder if that also is a path to madness?”

“I think we’ll discover that shortly,” Charles says and squeezes Erik’s hand within the felt pocket.

Erik returns the soft tightening of fingers. “We need to go to the opposite platform for the Hub.”

“Lead on, my friend.”

Erik pauses, his grip tightening once again on Charles’ hand. Charles feels Erik’s mood slip from the precipice of upset and fall directly into acceptance. Then he’s pulled into motion. Erik heads for the stairs that will lead to the tubular hallway that spans the rails to the opposite platform. On the way, their hands slip out of Erik’s deep pocket, but remain clasped.

On the other side, Charles releases of Erik’s hand long enough to consult his phone for the trains’ timetables. Before opening the timetables, he sees impatient messages from Raven and Hank asking what Erik does all day. He doesn’t reply, in favor of calling them later to field their many questions.

The East Hub is five minutes and two stops by the oncoming express train: the two of them will have lunch fairly quickly. Plus, the fresh market by the East Hub always has excellent coffee to choose from and that feels more and more like an absolute necessity; he has a deprivation headache coming on.

Charles feels his hair rise along the back of his arms and neck: through their connection he feels Erik’s magnetic field rise and rush forth. There’s no need for alarm, of course; Erik is drawn to Bashan’s trains. The local trains bring him pleasure, and when inside Central Station, he finds the superfast trans-city maglev trains things of nearly insurmountable fascination.

It is for the maglev trains, Charles thinks, that Erik is ever drawn to the great station at 7:13 each weekday morning. At no other time on a week day do so many of the magnetic trains run through the station.

There are only a few people on the platform when the sleek express arrives. The two of them have gone nowhere near the imminent passengers, so Erik’s presence has thus far made no waves. But even before the express’ doors open, Charles can see it is moderately crowded with people headed for the Hub.

“Tighten your field, Erik,” Charles commands softly. Erik’s magnetic field always causes a shudder to run through humans and mutants alike. The perceived violation of personal space alerts everyone to Erik’s presence more immediately than his appearance.

Erik complies, though his irritation is obvious in the slight pull of a sneer on his face. The feeling isn’t directed at Charles; Erik is always perturbed by the many concessions to human social norms and mores he must make. Only six weeks into their Bond, he still doesn’t understand the need to rein his abilities in.

The doors open and Erik steps in directly, without waiting for anyone departing to step outside. Thankfully, none intend to do so. The passengers closest to Erik shudder involuntarily as his field, even drawn up as it is, passes over them. If he were a mutant there might have been some muttering, but seeing him for what he is, a Power, people scramble away.

Erik is a recognized Power in Bashan, though not well known. It is only through Charles that his name has been discovered and disseminated. His publicly-built profile dubbed him both Magnetic Angel and Magneto. The name, Erik, is still a footnote; his unfriendly attitude keeps him far from the popularity of Powers like Storm or the Alexandrian.

Charles follows Erik in, virtually invisible by association. He frowns, wondering if he will ever get used to the way people react to Powers, to Erik. Those falling away from him project fear and those seated wonder at his presence with curiosity and awe or not a little fear and dislike. One girl, a teenager Charles reads as skipping school, is carefully aligning her phone to take pictures of the oncoming Power. She’s lucky, Charles thinks, Erik doesn’t notice when phones are being used to capture his image.

Nor does Erik care about the way people back away or clear the way before him; it is normal to him having known nothing else. As he is wont to do, Erik strides purposefully down the cars, content to walk the whole length of the train. By contrast, he sows fear, wonder, and ire the whole way. His presence parts the passengers in each car into equal halves; those that lean either right or left to keep their limited distance. It isn’t far enough, they all shudder briefly as he passes near.

The express slows to a stop as it reaches the Hub. Though he continues to keep his electromagnetic field in tight, Erik continues to create a shuddering path through the crowd exiting and those waiting to replace them. As far as Charles knows, all Powers do the same whether they have Erik’s electromagnetic field or not; he’s experienced a lighter version of the full-body shudder from Emma Frost’s Power in Alexandria as well as Jean Grey’s blind Power, Cyclops, who he does not care to meet again, despite his affection for Jean.

With no other train to catch, Erik slows his strides to match Charles’. Taking initiative, he slips his hand in Charles’ navy coat’s pocket.

“Oh, that’s new,” says Charles with a bit of a chuckle in his voice. Erik usually takes longer to adopt any of Charles’ habits and usually only after he’s seen them repeatedly. “Do you like that, then?”

Erik turns a perceptibly warm smile Charles’ way as their fingers intertwine. “Yes.”

Charles shares a wave of affection with him in response. “So do I.”

The East Hub is not as grand as the central station, but its vaulted dome and abstract frescoes are studies in riotous warm colors. As the sun tracks across the sky, the dome’s central disc of stain glass throws down contrasting purples and blues to dance among the walls and granite floors. Charles has always loved walking through the myriad beams. He is entranced when warm sunlight dressed in cool colors slips all over their skin and clothes; it makes him think of Raven.

Bashan’s famous oaks line the boulevards and paths that lead from the Hub. Hands still seated in Charles’ pocket, the two head for these.

And then Erik rips his hand away and spins about.

Having taken no consideration for the peacoat, Charles is jerked around with Erik, his chest bumping into Erik in the spin. He gasps in surprise first at the unexpected flash of motion, then grunts at the solid impact.

Erik’s eyes are narrowed and cold and focus at a point within the moving crowd. He makes a clipped ‘come here’ gesture with a wave of one hand and a startled shriek breaks through the crowd. Using her zippers, belt buckle, even the nails in her boots, Erik draws a young woman through the shocked onlookers. People stop in their tracks, turn to stare as the woman is dragged toward the Power.

“Erik,” Charles says, grabbing his Power’s bicep, “what are you doing?”

He’s never seen Erik do anything like this before. Erik doesn’t reply and that’s new, too.

“Hey, hey,” the woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties, sporting a rich brown coat and high boots, is pulling back against her right hand which is clasped in a fist before her as if straining against an invisible handcuff. “What the fuck?”

The woman radiates fear, anger, and…  _guilt_. Charles tries to shake Erik’s bicep but it is as effective as jostling a statue. “Erik, stop. She knows what she’s done and she’s frightened. You’ve made your point.”

Erik continues to disregard Charles’ presence. He reaches out and takes the woman’s wrist once she’s close enough. “Open your hand.”

She shakes her head violently and begins to scream for help. “I didn’t do anything! Let go! Somebody help! Please!”

“Give him the watch,” Charles commands and laces the suggestion into her mind at the same time.

Though she continues to struggle, the woman’s hand blooms open and a pocket watch tumbles from her fingers. It does not fall far, but floats up over Erik’s open palm. Another woman in the crowd swears colorfully as it turns slowly, chain following in a lazy spiral that is at complete odds with the tense situation. “That’s mine!”

Erik does not turn toward the voice, but the watch inscribes a slow parabola toward the owner all the same.

“Erik, let her go,” Charles says as calmly as he can. Silently he says, _It’s enough. Take her to the police, Erik. Please._

For only a moment, Erik’s jaw tightens and a cold fury flashes through him. Then the hand on the thief’s wrist twists and bones snap. Caught unaware, still touching her mind, Charles and the woman scream as one.

Charles disconnects from the woman and the sucking gravity of her fear and pain. For a moment he feels nothing but movement and he hears the Swarm buzzing angrily all around him. Eyes closed, he sees Erik’s swarm of jewel-tone beetles picking at Erik’s clothing or buzzing directly around his ears. Erik’s expression is distraught, whatever passes as his heart is thrumming against Charles’ chest. It’s only then Charles realizes that Erik’s arms are tight about him and his feet aren’t touching the ground.

Every week, sometimes more often, Charles sees Erik hang in the air outside his loft and calibrate with Bashan. The first time he thought Erik might fall to his death but, no, Erik suspends himself with his electromagnetokinesis. He’s known Erik can do this, but he’s never even considered that Erik could take him with him. To be honest, the idea of hanging over the city the way Erik does when Bashan reasserts Equilibrium has never been something Charles has wanted to do.

But here he is, Erik’s arms pressing him close to his too-warm body, the East hub’s dome scintillating and swirling with color nearby, feet treading air, Swarm in an uproar, and Erik radiating upset.

 _Erik_ , Charles says.  _I’m okay. I didn’t actually feel her pain, just the fear and stress. Pain is a physical thing, not exactly a psychic one._

“No,” Erik replies, voice hoarse for what might be the first time Charles knows of. “Pain isn’t simply in the realm of the corporeal. You hurt. I made you hurt.”

Charles opens his eyes. The sky is no more blue than before, but the stained glass dome nearby is no longer moving. Below their feet the crowd hasn’t dispersed, but grown larger. A few people have pulled out their phones to record the event. Charles wants to suggest that they put the phones away, but that’s much more a violation than what he did on the escalators.

“But I don’t hurt at all now,” Charles reasons and places a hand on Erik’s cheek. He can still hear the chitinous whir of Erik’s swarm but he can’t see them. “Come on, let’s go on to the market and get some food and coffee.”

He can feel Erik’s opposition to that idea; he wants to stay far above the pavement and gardens where humans and mutants pass by; far above where he can keep Charles from pain. “It can’t happen again. It can never happen again.”

“Oh Erik.” Charles takes his hand from Erik’s face. “You didn’t know my telepathy would give me feedback like that. You didn’t even know I was still in contact with her mind. But, honestly, it wouldn’t have happened at all had you not broken her hand. That’s too much. You can’t punish people like that.”

“I can and I will,” Erik replies, and there’s a blue glow of electricity over his eyes as he speaks, but even so he holds Charles all the tighter. “But I can’t hurt you.”

“Let’s talk about it at the market,” Charles tries again. “You know I’m hungry. Come now.”

Again he feels Erik’s recalcitrance, but his Power relents, letting them sink slowly down toward the Belgian block sidewalk. Erik’s magnetic field fluctuates as they come close, sending the already scattering crowd into flight. He sends another pulse after that, despite Charles’ strong protests.

It’s little wonder Bashan’s populace doesn’t exactly like their Magnetic Angel. Of course Erik is no Cyclops, who only opens his eyes to deliver death, dismemberment, and destruction. He’s no charismatic force like Storm or the Alexandrian, either.　

By the time the uneven surface of the path presses up against his feet again, the crowd has dispersed, and Erik is still reluctant to release Charles, though Charles is now wroth. They head off to the busy market for a late breakfast and coffee with Erik’s arm around Charles’ waist, his left hand seeking Charles’ in his left pocket. Without pausing in his stride, Charles pushes Erik’s hand away.

“No,” Charles says. “You can’t just do that.”

Erik’s confusion radiates around him. He moves his hand up to settle at Charles’ hip.

Charles’ sighs noisily and pushes his Power’s protective arm away. “Erik, no. I don’t want you to do this right now.”

“Why?” Erik asks and moves his hand further up to Charles’ shoulder instead. “You said you liked it. Or did you _not_ say it? Have you not said it _yet_?”

Charles keeps them walking though he can feel Erik’s strong desire to stop and sort through the puzzle that’s suddenly thrown his thought process for a very confusing loop. Erik and time are troublesome things. “Yes, I did say it and yes I do like it, but I’m upset with you.”

There’s a sharp spike of confusion so strong that Erik stops along the path, among the waving shadows of the tree branches above. “When you are upset with me, you don’t want me to touch you? But why are you upset with me?”

The look on Erik’s face is miserable, the confusion spiraling ever higher, and yet Charles is sure this is something Erik must learn. His misery is important though unfortunate. Charles walks back to him and stands beside Erik once more.

“You broke a woman’s wrist, Erik,” Charles says. “You broke her wrist and then you dispersed the crowd with electromagnetic bursts. You overreacted to a crime and then you punished innocent people. I can’t abide that, Erik; it’s wrong.”

If Erik was confused and miserable before, now he’s reeling wildly. Charles can almost sense Erik’s iron orrery center wheeling off kilter. “This is what I am.”

“No,” Charles says, and pushes comfort at Erik through their Bond. “This is what you do. Who a person is and what they do are different.”

The comfort is swallowed, but Erik’s confusion grows deeper, his expression becomes strained. “But I am what I do. I cannot be other than what I do. I am a function, a thing, a force. I am Temporal Power Erik; I am numbered thirty and seven and my governance is electromagnetism.”

And as Erik struggles to understand what Charles has said, to broaden his existence to Charles’ expansive parameters of human expression and personality the truth of the situation takes shape in Charles’ mind. Erik is not now and has never been human. Erik is a straightforward being of ultimate purpose, configured to a particular powerful calibration; he isn’t human and he may never be able to comprehend human agency.

In that understanding Charles relents, becomes less strict and lays his hand on Erik’s breast where a heart doesn’t always beat. It’s there now, thumping quickly under Charles’ smooth palm. “Never mind all that; I misspoke.”

Erik’s brow raises in a heart-breakingly human approximation of hope. Charles offers a smile and Erik’s face brightens; he crushes Charles close, trapping his hand between their chests. Erik breathes out, another thing he doesn’t always do, and Charles feels the breath ruffle his fringe. The confusion and locking up of proverbial gears in Erik’s mind are gone and everything is more or less feeling smooth between them. Charles still feels that Erik is slightly off, but he knows that Erik can find Equilibrium with Bashan later that night.

“You need coffee and food,” Erik says quietly above Charles’ ear. “Let’s go.”

They pull apart, but Charles once again sinks his hand into Erik’s pocket as they go and Erik radiates contentment and pulls his field in close, bathing Charles in loving, invisible static. Charles squeezes Erik’s hand when it joins his in the heavy wool fabric of the pocket, but his mind is elsewhere as they walk. Along the stone path, within the trees’ slanting, morning shadows, Charles feels the edges of the conundrum. He has never entered the scholarly debate about Powers and their supposed lack of free will, but now… now he’s begun to see it for what it is.


End file.
